Sneezing is nature’s way of telling me that I should refrain from any and all outdoor excursions in the springtime. As an added bonus, I like to top my suffering off not only with sneezing, but with all of the available options on the seasonal allergy menu. If it’s between my forehead and my chin and it can sneeze, wheeze, or water, it will. At Firehouse Subs, they’d call it “Fully Involved.”
I call it March through May.
It’s a shame, too. Springtime is so pretty. It’s deceptive. I guess it’s comparable to the Sirens in Greek mythology, luring me outside so that my violent sneezing can…oh, I don’t know, transfer dandelion seeds to places where they can flourish miles away. (I’m not sure that’s how it works. I’m not a botanist or a Greek mythologist or an allergist. I just know that my sneezing creates its own jet stream this time of year.)
Beautiful? Yes. Or is it…?
Yes, it’s a trap. Much like the heartbreaking discovery that I have a severe cat allergy but happen to love the little creatures, I’m also a landscape and nature photographer who is allergic to springtime. Sometimes, I’ll even feel a twinge of sympathetic itching in my eyes when I just look at a photo of a pretty flower newly dressed for the season.
Still, I’ll brave it for the perfect photo. The way I see it, if I can get two or three good pictures before I can no longer hold the camera steady due to a sneezing fit, I’ve had a successful outing. Bonus points if I can make it home before my eyes water and swell shut.
However, if a sneeze is a wish your nose makes, I wish it would decide not to sneeze anymore.
Author’s Note: This is what a typical brainstorm looks like to me, although sometimes the ideas are a little more chunky than smooth. Occasionally, I find a great idea from something like this. Very occasionally. I’ve had a really goofy quote from a movie in my head and I thought I’d write down some of the most random thoughts I could articulate in a time span of approximately three minutes.
Enjoy.
I don’t think stories should always start at the beginning. I’m usually jumping into the middle of someone’s story every time they have a conversation and mention people I don’t know. It’s like a disorganized grocery list that has you running for bread and then bacon and then apples and then trash bags. Good exercise, bad planning. That is, if you follow the list in list order instead of store order.
I hated playing Red Rover when I was a kid. Of course they were always going to barrel towards me at 900 miles per hour. The drawstring on my backpack was thicker than my arms. Doing handsprings on the grass was much less violent. A kid tried to push me off a ladder on the slide once, though, so I guess nothing was ever totally safe; I tripped over my own foot on my way to a class in college and fell on a sidewalk. Expensive textbooks kept me from breaking my face–I fell on one of those first before my nose could actually hit the concrete. (Reading is important. It could save you from a concussion.)
I can only make one kind of paper airplane. Whether or not it flies is always a mystery. I have to throw-test it and I would feel bad if any passengers had to be along for that ride. They have no landing gear. Oops.
Why did Bill Paxton play a character named “Bill” so many times? It may have only been two times (possibly three–I should look that up), but it’s still noticeable.
Writing stories longhand is my preference, but I’m not sure what I’ll do someday when I get arthritis. I already have a tough enough time getting my pen to keep up with my thoughts.
If you kick a tree, will the squirrels throw acorns at you? You’re trespassing on their home. Or are you? I suppose they have a right to defend their home, but doesn’t the tree belong to the tree?
Do your thoughts talk to you or do you see them in writing? What about subtitles?
I really despise the term “life hacks,” but it’s what people know right now, so I guess I’ll use it. I don’t know about you, but I associate the word “hack” with images of chronic phlegm sufferers, axe murderers, or computer geniuses sending out viruses, although that could just be my imagination running amok. (You may feel differently. I can’t know that, though. I’m not you.)
Perhaps the word “advice” is more appropriate, but I’ll stick with current nomenclature and call this a “life hack” (eww) for writers.
I first introduced this idea to someone looking for a suggestion on how to keep up with projects or ideas they wanted to revisit in their old journals. The idea was simple, really, which is the point of a “life hack,” (bleh) I suppose.
I should preface this “life hack” (ugh) by saying that I am a proud card-carrying member of the “I Handwrite My First Drafts and/or Ideas in a Real-Life Journal” club. We have no cards, though, so that “card-carrying” bit was a lie. Sorry.
Anyway, back to the “life hack” (meh).
If I have a topic, incomplete story, or even just one line in one of my many journals that I want to flesh out or revise later, I mark it with a paper clip. I like to use colored paper clips because they stand out a bit more.
Wait…no. Paper clips. They’re much more durable. And they send a clearer message. I think.
Then, when I’m ready to work, I simply open the journal and sort through the clips. Some ideas may not be worth my time, but some need my attention.
As I transfer and complete a draft or project from the journal to the computer, I remove the paper clip. You can begin to see progress as the paper clips dwindle and that particular journal becomes less bulky.
You also have the added bonus of more paper clips to use again for all of your paper clipping needs. Real paper clips. On real paper. Where I prefer to write first ideas and drafts.
Oh, hey. Of course I remember you. You used to watch me write term papers. Very closely, if I recall. Where have you been? Your brothers and sisters have been holding my ideas together for me in a leather-bound journal for a while now. I’m just going to finish talking about this “life hack” (sigh) now, so run along. Nice seeing you…I think…
Because my journals tend to be very scatterbrained (which could possibly be attributed to the user), I will clip the exact spot on the page where the idea sprang forth. That way, I don’t necessarily have to read the entire page to try to remember which idea I wanted to revisit.
I don’t know if this is an approach others have tried, but it seems to work for me (when I actually make myself do it). It frees up some of my time for eating, sleeping, and other similar hobbies.
Best hobby ever.
Give it a try! Let me know what you think! And if you don’t need the paper clips after you’ve finished sifting through your journals, send photos of the stylish necklaces and bracelets you can create with them.
The title reads like an Oscar-nominated documentary, right? It’s not, but I can assure you that it’s a quite accurate description of the forthcoming tale. Two things you should keep in mind as you read:
This isn’t about the real Bob Ross, and…
Even a Chia Pet can get a little out of control.
Yes, the fine people of the Chia Pet dynasty have marketed a Bob Ross Chia Head in their line of products. It was a no-brainer on their part, really. Aside from his artwork and his happy little soothing approach to life, his most distinguishing feature was his hair. As the story goes, he created the trademark look after he realized he wanted to save money on haircuts. Therefore, he had it permed to reduce the necessity for trips to the barber shop. And—as the story also goes—he wasn’t crazy about the style, but once it was intertwined with his personal brand, he had to keep doing it.
Lucky for all of us. Otherwise, his Chia Head wouldn’t exist.
I received one as a gag gift. Since my ability to keep plant life alive is marginal—and that’s really stretching it—I decided to give it a try while keeping my expectations low for a full ‘fro harvest.
If you’ve never planted a Chia Pet before, here are a few of the (paraphrased) steps:
Soak the planter, preferably for an hour.
Mix the seeds in 1/4 cup of water. The consistency is the tricky part; they have to be slimy enough for moisture to facilitate growth, but dry enough not to slide off Bob’s contoured skull.
Take a spoon, knife, fingers, or other object and spread the seeds evenly over the planter.
Don’t water the planter for two days. The seeds have to dry and stick.
Wait.
The “spread seeds evenly” part is just as tricky as creating the right seed-to-water ratio. The first attempt I made, most of the seeds slid off of his head in a gooey, clumpy mess. The second, more successful time, I used less water, so I had fewer gooey, clumpy messes; still, they happened. I doubt that “even distribution” is completely possible on a grooved surface like ol’ Bob’s noggin.
I watched Bob carefully after I applied the coating, using a plastic knife to spread renegade seeds back on to his head if they began to melt away. I was redistributing seeds almost every thirty minutes that first day. I wasn’t about to sacrifice sleep over a Chia Head, so I went to sleep that night and hoped I wouldn’t wake up to find a pile of hair plugs in Bob’s drip tray.
When I woke up the next morning, most of the seeds that decided to slither went down the nape of his neck, meaning that I was in danger of raising a Chia Michael Bolton if I didn’t fix the situation. They were still somewhat spreadable, so I redistributed more to the top, and, for the most part, they stayed.
Think of it like frosting a really lumpy cake made of brick.
As everything dried over the next 24 hours, I thought I had a fighting chance of my Bob Ross looking like the picture of Bob Ross on the box.
The following day, the seeds had sufficiently dried, so I watered the planter as directed.
Now, to wait.
Slowly, but surely, Bob started to sprout. Sure, he had a few bald spots, but he was already looking better than my first attempt…in which I had accidentally turned the faucet on his head and created a reverse mohawk. He also had a renegade sprout growing near his eye, but it gave him character.
Happy little sprouts.
What they don’t tell you is that, like any other hairstyle, you only have a window of about 24 hours that it’s exactly the correct length for your taste. One day past that window, Bob was looking somewhat disheveled.
Two days later, he looked like years of paint fumes were really doing a number on his state of being.
Looks like he picked the wrong week to quit…oh, never mind.
Finally, when he started to resemble Einstein’s crazy nephew that no one in the family talks to anymore, I declared an end to the experiment, putting Bob in the sink for a shave.
Medusa’s inspiration.
I’m sure I’ll buy more seeds for future adventures with the happy little guy, but for now, I’m taking a break from gardening after proving that I can keep plant life alive—and some.
I’m guilty. You’re guilty. We’re probably all guilty.
Guilty, you say? Of what?
True, on a philosophical level, we’re all guilty of lots of somethings, so I suppose I should specify this particular instance of guilt before you all start beating yourselves up over other transgressions.
How many times have you said/heard/overheard/responded to this statement?
“Have a good one.”
You know you’ve said it. You’ve also been on the receiving end of that statement. And I know that the linguists and comedians of the world have covered this topic (probably better than I can), but this is my blog and it’s my turn, so there. If you don’t like it, too bad. So sad. Love, Brad (whoever Brad is).
I kinda hope it’s this guy.
As I said, it’s probably already been said, so, for my own personal record, I’ll say it.
ONE WHAT?!?
Okay, okay, I get it—it’s a substitute for “day.” Why, though? “Day” is the same number of letters as “one,” it’s just as quick to say as “one,” and it happens to be my middle name (a bit off-topic, sure, but I like my middle name). How did “day” morph into “one”? The “a” in “have a good day” along with the singular nature of “day” is already indicative of “one” being the understood unit of measurement in that statement.
However—to get back to the crux of this post—how does anyone “have a good ONE”? What is a “one”? It has to be a “one” of something—understood as “day” in this situation, as we have established, but someone might have missed the memo the day (or “one”) that it went out—and I’ve just gone and massively complicated a simple pleasantry usually exchanged at drive-thru windows and banks in the name of the typical analytical paranoia that follows me around on a one-to-one (see also: day-to-day) basis.
I was plucking my eyebrows a few days ago when I had two thoughts: 1) ouch, it still hurts to do this, and 2) the VERY FIRST time I did this, it took about three hours because I was eighteen years old, ignorant about a lot of beauty-related things, and, as a result, was dangerously close to having a unibrow.
I’ll say.
(Okay, those were several thoughts. Sorry about the math skills.)
Anyway, it’s never been much fun and it almost always makes me sneeze to tweeze. Guess the follicles are connected to my sneezer switch or something.
Anyway, anyway—back to one of those thoughts. I was thinking about the VERY FIRST time I plucked my eyebrows.
Does anyone ever call a “second something” the VERY SECOND instance? You rarely hear the word “very” as a modifier of “second” in that context.
Language study time. Do you think that at the second performance of the 1812 Overture, it was introduced with the word “very” in front of “second”? (They’d most likely have been speaking Russian, so just pretend they spoke English to make this easier.)
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the VERY SECOND performance of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture!”
If you’d been in the audience (and if you’re reading this, I’m assuming you weren’t, because it was a long time ago and if you are still alive and remember the performance with any degree of clarity, you need to call a medical research facility pronto because they’ll want to run a few tests for everyone’s benefit here—have someone show you how to use a phone), you’d probably have heard something more like this:
“Tonight the orchestra will be playing the second performance of the new 1812 Overture by Tchaikovsky. Please express your final wishes to your families now in the event that you are injured by the cannons.”
Seems like everything that happens the first time is expressed as the VERY first time.
“Oh, look! He’s taking his VERY first steps!”
“She just lost her VERY first tooth!”
“We just went to her VERY first graduation! Preschool! We only have thirteen more of these to go before she actually earns a real diploma!”
The only times you ever hear “very second” is when someone is referring to a minute unit of time. (Minute? See what I did there? Haha, yeah…at least I thought it was funny.)
“The very second he jumped out of the plane, he wished he hadn’t.”
“They timed that race down to the very second.”
No one ever says, “You remember the very second time we went to that new barbecue joint?”
Of course they don’t! If the trip was memorable for some reason, they’d just say, “You remember the second time we went to that new barbecue joint?”
“Very” is an interesting modifier that writers are told to use very, very sparingly.
Just something to think about the next time you talk about a very first…or second.
I overheard someone mentioning that they needed a pair of sensible shoes.
What exactly is a “sensible” shoe?
As a wordsmith, I would like first to view this term from a strictly literal perspective. I mean, in my mind, I’m picturing a “sensible” shoe as an agreeable item that won’t argue with you. (Shoes have tongues, after all, so it stands to reckon that they could—theoretically—argue.)
If my shoes did this, well, they’d be cute, but distracting; therefore, not sensible.
If you’re constantly arguing with your shoes, how will you have time to walk or tap your feet to music or run a half-marathon? (That is, if you’re someone who runs long distances, which I could never do because it would be my feet arguing with me before my shoes had the chance to talk.)
Next, I’d like to view this term from a realistic perspective. When I hear “sensible” shoe, I think of the nurse shoes of yesteryear. The white ones with the thick soles. Comfortable, sure. Fashionably sensible? Depends on your fashion sense.
If you’re looking strictly for comfort when you use the word “sensible,” I’ve heard that Crocs will have you covered. However, I’m of the school of thought that no matter how comfortable a pair of those might be, I will NEVER know it, because I just can’t even bring myself to try on a pair.
For starters, they have holes. If I have to wear socks with the things in winter just to keep my feet warm AND sensibly comfortable, then I might as well just wrap my feet in bubble wrap and draw even more attention to myself. Sure, the bubble wrap might feel like walking on air for about ten seconds, until all the bubbles started to pop and everyone in the grocery store you’re walking through would hit the deck because they didn’t know what that sound was and…where was I going with this?
Uhh, I wasn’t going there, but this is cute.
Oh, yeah. Crocs. Thanks, but no thanks.
I’m going to assume that a “sensible” shoe is somewhat comfortable and moderately stylish (because, as we all know, you can’t completely have both).
I’m thinking loafers, although the word “loafer” tends to imply a sense of laziness that negates sensibility.
I’m going to be productive in my loafers.
He’s probably wearing loafers.
Yeah, not a sentence you hear very often.
Then again, neither is, “Original hummus chokes twelve angry tsetse flies every half hour in an Antarctic discotheque.” It could happen, but not likely.
Then, you have your sneakers. Sneaky.
Perhaps you call them tennis shoes, like I do. It’s been a while since I’ve played tennis, though, so it feels a bit dishonest.
I’ll just be here in my socks until I figure this one out. Talk amongst yourselves.
I thought I’d start out 2019 with a blog post just to get all of the “firsts” out of the way. I don’t really have anything of substance to say—with the year being so new and all—but that really doesn’t make me much different than the millions of other internet dwellers who seem to have no qualms about sharing a whole lot of nothing online. Et cetera, lorem ipsum, so on, and so forth.
So, I’m guessing you’re reading this because you’re a) really bored, b) you’re one of my two fans, c) you’re already avoiding a poorly-constructed New Year’s resolution, or d) you clicked the wrong link somewhere on the way to Albuquerque.
Left turn…
Whatever the case may be, welcome! Don’t expect too much, and tell your friends.
How about a “Year In Review” segment to get things started? It should be really easy to put together today. Easier than it will be on December 31, right? Why not stay ahead of things?
Here goes.
2019 Year In Review:
January 1: It was a lazy morning, and after a modest breakfast, I drifted aimlessly to the sofa to watch the Tournament of Roses parade, drooling and wondering how long it took to glue all those little flowers and flower seeds to the floats. Then I told myself I was glad I didn’t have to do that job since I had much better things to do, as I stretched out and yawned repeatedly in my disheveled state, wiping coffee from the corner of my mouth. I then prepared a modest lunch of ham and black-eyed peas, and while I wasn’t convinced it would actually make me healthy, wealthy, and wise for the upcoming year, I decided it couldn’t hurt. I considered wearing something other than pajamas for the first day of the year, but, my goodness, they’re just so comfy.
I’m telling you, if the rest of the year keeps up like this, not only will writing my annual yearly year-end review be really easy, but it’ll also be the most comfortable year of my existence.
Don’t forget to tell your friends all about the nothing they can read here throughout 2019.
Okay, let’s try to keep this short and sweet, because it’s about to be 2019 and I will have things to do in 2019.
This is a summary, so forgive me if I leave out a few details. Currently, a full transcript of Things I Did In 2018 is unavailable. (2018 isn’t completely over yet anyway. Duh.)
Things I Did In 2018:
I stopped automatically writing 2017 on all paperwork, documents, and checks sometime around my birthday. In February.
I moved east of the Mississippi River. I began to understand and appreciate the value of playing Tetris for hours at a time during my formative years once I had to downsize. (Come over sometime and take a look at my closets. I tried not to hum Russian music faster and faster as the piles of boxes climbed up the walls when I was unpacking.)
This is the river. I live somewhere to the right of it. And, yes, I sell prints of this photo here.
I took more photos. That’s what photographers do.
I wrote more stuff. That’s what writers do.
I wrote lists. That’s what really meticulous people do.
I left grocery stores with a lot more than what was originally on those lists. That’s what hungry shoppers will do.
I decided not to make any resolutions for 2019. That’s mainly for self-esteem purposes, because it’s a little bit demoralizing to find yourself cancelling a gym membership on January 3.
I didn’t win the lottery, but I don’t know anyone who did, so that’s not really a big deal.
I stopped watching as much television. I don’t really feel any smarter, but I don’t feel as though I’ve missed out on much, either.
I probably left out a few things, like what I had for breakfast on April 12 or how long I waited on my last oil change, but I’m working on brevity in my writing since we live in a 140-characters-or-less kind of world these days.
When you tear the tag off a pillow, does it scream? Do alarms and sirens go off in the Center for Pillow Tag Safety or something?
When I was a kid, popular culture (and urban myth) taught me that tearing the tag off of a pillow or mattress was an offense worthy of the torture chamber (or at least a hefty fine and jail time). No one bothered to tell me that it was safe to rip it off once I ACTUALLY BOUGHT THE ITEM, though, so I left a lot of tags on a lot of pillows over the years.
I know I’m the consumer. But, still. Does it make anyone else nervous to think about removing the tag?
Well, a while back, I dug a pillow out of a closet to display in my living room. The tag was still attached, and a decades-old shudder of anxiety ran through my body as I realized that displaying it with the tag still attached would be ugly. I read the tag very carefully, looking for any alarm sensors or tracking devices in the process, mentally preparing myself to remove it.
I am the consumer. I legally purchased this reindeer pillow. Wait a minute…nope, no, I didn’t. It was a gift. Did they purchase it from a reputable, law-abiding vendor? I know the tag says “Walmart,” but anyone could print that in their parents’ basement. Can I actually bring myself to do this? Better make sure there’s not a security camera on this thing…
Gripping the pillow in my left hand and cradling the delicate tag in my right, I walked over to the desk in my bedroom, reaching for my pair of blue-handled scissors.
Here goes nothing.
Snip.
AAHHHHHHHH! The tag! I cut it off the pillow! I’m such a rebel!!!!
It turned out to be a surprisingly anti-climactic moment. I mean, the smoke detector didn’t even go off. No one called from the Pentagon. My neighbors didn’t even complain.
And, for the time being, I have a cute pillow sitting in my living room without an itchy, ugly tag.
I’ll still probably sweat a little bit every time someone knocks on my door…
